


Mistletoe Not Required

by patternofdefiance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boxing Day, Christmas, First Kiss, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 09:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John rolled his eyes, and kicked the battered and leafy smear of green and white aside before continuing inside. Sherlock and his bloody vendetta, John thought.</p><p>Sherlock and his bloody Sherlockness.</p><p>He didn’t think this in a fond manner, no not at all (is what he thought). Not fond, not him, nope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe Not Required

It began simply enough, with an advert on the telly, which centered around the strategic placement of a sprig of mistletoe. John had smiled slightly, but Sherlock had narrowed his eyes.

John thought nothing of it.

(oh dear John)

That was December 1st.

 

*

At the crime scene five days later, at a rather lovely bed and breakfast sort of place, John and Sherlock passed through the doorway to the lobby almost at exactly the same moment. (I say almost exactly). Sally, however, said, “Oi! You two went through at the same time!” She caught John’s eye and grinned wickedly.

John, not usually quicker on the uptake than Sherlock, froze, which was a not-well-thought-out-at-all reaction. Sherlock paused too, slightly ahead of John, glancing between Sally and the doctor, his face a jigsaw of confusion, impatience, and – especially when he looked at John – a touch of concern. Finally Sally nodded her head in the direction of the doorway, and yes (you guessed it), there hung a spray of dark green leaves and a sparse cluster of white berries.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

Then, with two quick strides, he moved forward, was right beside John, and John’s eyes were on him, confused with a touch of panic (and maybe something else, but that’s not the point right now), and Sherlock reached a hand up –

And up over John’s head, to snatch the offending flora off the doorway, and threw it into the lobby’s fireplace. He rounded on Sally, who seemed sheepish and shocked and defensive all-at-once, and snarled, ( I say ‘snarled’) and Sherlock did snarl, “If you are quite finished,” before thundering past her.

John was still standing in the doorway, but he shook himself, and that (unnamed) emotion settled out of sight.

*

On December 12, John came home with arms laden with Tesco bags, and nearly slipped as he stepped onto the front step of 221, despite the ground being as bone dry as the air-

No wait. There was something soft and slightly slimy underfoot –

John rolled his eyes, and kicked the battered and leafy smear of green and white aside before continuing inside. Sherlock and his bloody vendetta, John thought.

Sherlock and his bloody Sherlockness.

He didn’t think this in a fond manner, no not at all (is what he thought). Not fond, not him, nope.

*

December 15th, and yet another crime scene, this time out by the river side, where the edge of the river was sharp with dirty ice, and Sherlock was somehow, in John’s opinion, slightly more relaxed than he had been of late. He even smiled at something John remarked to Sally, something which John couldn’t remember later, because …of…reasons. (I remember though – he told Sally to shut up before she had even opened her mouth, beating Sherlock to it.)

(I know the reasons, too, but John didn’t yet.)

The smile, the part John did remember, was a genuine smile, the kind that seemed to be shocked out of the blank canvas of Sherlock’s face, so rare and sudden and different.

The cab ride home was pleasant and easy, and even though the air was dry and icy like freezer burn in their lungs, there was a warmth hidden in the folds of the space between them.

*

“We’re going to the Yard’s Christmas do,” John said over the (debilitatingly slow) noise of his typing.

“We are not,” Sherlock said from behind his microscope.

“It’s on the 23rd,” John continued, “in the evening. Unless a murder happens, we’re going.”

Sherlock paused, pipette poised above a fresh slide. “…You are allowing for the possibility of a murder?”

John smiled at something on his screen (perhaps). “It’s Christmas,” he said, as if that answered it. Then more softly, “Everyone deserves to have something to look forward to.”

Sherlock administered exactly three drops of solution, covered the slide, then sat back for a moment. He opened his mouth, (to ask what John was looking forward to,) but then he closed his mouth without saying anything.

*

Much later that evening, John, still typing, (still bloody typing!) said, as casually as possible, “Just a fair warning, but I know for a fact there will be mistletoe present at the Yard party.”

Sherlock, who had finished three experiments and one sulk, and was now staring broodily out the window as he cradled his violin, lowered it from beneath his chin, and stared at John. Tiny snips of emotion barely surfaced, rapidly replacing each other, but all ultimately pushed under the calm (ha!)and blank mask of his features. “And why do you mention that? And why in the form of a warning?”

“Because,” John said, distracted by his s i n g a l l e t t e r a t a t i m e typing, “you seem to have some sort of fixation on mistletoe, or at least,” he amended with a sideways nod of his head, eyes still on his screen, “the destruction of it.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why, or what the poor plant ever did to you, but I cannot even hazard a guess.” (John is normally a terrible liar, but this time he had also managed to lie to himself, which made it all the more convincing. He has hazarded a guess, and while it was wrong, it still acted as a red herring as Sherlock hunted his features for his inner thoughts.)

“So try not to be a total twat, at the party.” John smiled at him, then returned to t y p i n g.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. (This seems to happen a lot.)

(Especially around mistletoe.)

*

December 20, and Sherlock was praying for a murder. Parties, people, social conventions, holiday traditions. He sneered, and the young single mother of two with bad finances and a big heart next to him on the Tube shifted uncomfortably. He rolled his eyes. And fixed his stare in the middle distance.

He was carrying a large parcel that contained several samplings of human bones in different states of decay and abuse. Damn the cabbies and their strange radar- when it came time to hail one, they had all disappeared.

It wasn’t even leaking.

(Much).

At 221, Mrs. Hudson had re-hung the mistletoe. Face tight, lips pressed thin, Sherlock reached up a gloved hand and tore the mistletoe from it’s string, threw it to the side, and stalked into the building.

He most certainly did not think of that time he had reached up, John still frozen, only his eyes moving, as Sherlock reached up to remove the offensive plant - 

(Yes he did.)

*

Christmas Eve, and John woke up with the after-buzz in his head, the not-quite-hangover packing his head and his tongue with fuzz.

John didn’t want to wake up, but he did.

John didn’t want to remember, but he did that as well.

John very much wanted to curl up and disappear, but he didn’t.

Instead he got up, stretched his shoulder (you know the one) carefully, since mobility was an issue in the cold, and it was bloody cold. Then he stretched his leg (yes, that one) as well, for good measure, trying not to think if giving it special attention would strengthen his psychosomatic associations regarding it. He stretched his other remaining limbs, just in case.

Downstairs, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Thank God.

John wanted to make tea, so he did, and finally one thing was going his way. He took a sip and remembered and winced. Okay, maybe not so much his way, then.

Sherlock had sulked on the day of the party. No murders. John had forbid him to fashion a crime scene himself. Then Sherlock had called Lestrade and accused him of hiding all the good murders. Then he accused him of arresting all the good murderers, and a heated debate ensued on both ends, with Lestrade shouting “Isn’t that the BLOODY POINT?!” and John gritting out that there didn’t exist such a thing as good murders, or even good murderers for that matter, and Sherlock had roared and sulked and then –

John closed his eyes.

\- and then he’d gotten ready for the party.

John hadn’t questioned it (oh dear, John), had actually been grateful that Sherlock seemed to have gotten over himself for once and was going to be sociable.

Ha!

(Ha!)

John took another sip, and winced. He remembered:

Sherlock, quiet in the cab. Sherlock, watching John when he thought John wasn’t looking. Sherlock looking away when John glanced his way. (John was trying to avoid thinking about how he watched Sherlock when he was staring out the cab window).

Sherlock offering to pay for the cab. Sherlock opening the door and checking his corners, like a soldier, for enemy mistletoe.

Goddamn bloody Sherlock. He sulked in a corner all night, lashed out at anyone that came by, even John, and John had decided to stay on the opposite end of the room, chatting to the nice new CS photographer, and later with Greg and a surprisingly tipsy (and even more surprisingly flirtatious) Sally.

And over in the land of Sherlock, thunderheads were building. The tension in the room, the tension nobody else had seemed to notice, except for Greg, who was anxiously ignoring it, and Sally, maybe, who had really start to wear on John’s nerves –

And then suddenly, Sherlock had been behind him, grasping his arm, saying, “Done now.” And he started pulling. “We’re going home.”

And John said, “No.”

He still didn’t know why he’d said no, (he really didn’t). And maybe it had come out strangely, with more force, or meaning, or subtext than he had intended…?

And Sherlock had flinched.

A whole body, whole face, whole person flinch.

And then he left. He didn’t storm or stomp or stalk out. He simply left, somehow injured.

After that, the party air felt stale. People who had seen stared at John and whispered to each other, stupid things like ‘trouble in paradise’ and ‘honeymoon’s over’ and ‘knew it wouldn’t last.’ And John…

John may have said …something? He may have said …too much?

It was all a bit hazy, (it really was), but he had the feeling that the phrase ‘the lady doth protest too much’ now applied to him more than ever. He winced. (awkward choice of word, John).

And now he had no tea left, and no energy either, which wasn’t how drinking tea was supposed to work, dammit.

*

Christmas, and Sherlock was quiet, and John was the public face of 221B, and handled the visitors and saw to packages, and tried to coax food and drink into Sherlock, as a sort of apology, but didn’t press when the insufferable man refused to eat or drink, as a different sort of apology.

“You boys have a nice night in,” Mrs. Hudson whispered as she left. It was barely nine pm.

John flopped down in his chair, and stared at the fairy lights, and took a sip of his mulled wine, and tried not to think, and failing that, tried not to remember, and failing that, tried not to stare at Sherlock.

(and failing that)

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock said, which was the first thing he’d said all day, the first thing since ‘We’re going home.’

John smiled tentatively. “Let me guess, it’s distracting?”

Sherlock grunted from his chair. He was in his usual dark suit, hair impeccably disheveled, face cast in shadows and contours, darkness and light skin, angular and sensual, and John was by now very aware of his problem.

(The lady had indeed, oh dear, and for how long?)

“I’m sorry about the other night,” John said, and Sherlock raised his gaze from some point on the carpet to look at John. “I honestly don’t know what that was all about.” (He didn’t at the time, but he had a strong inkling now, so would the lie hold up?)

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

(Ah, ‘fraid not.)

“Yes, you do, John, don’t be stupid.”

John flushed, not sure how to interpret ‘stupid’ this time. Did it mean he usually wasn’t? “If you’re so bloody clever, why don’t you explain it to me, then?” (Which was not what he meant to say, because he hadn’t planned on opening that up again, but here they were.)

Sherlock eyes softened, and he looked away. “No.”

And John realized what had upset Sherlock at the party, and why he had flinched, because John felt the same reaction threaten to shake his body. If there was one thing John could count on Sherlock, it was to (eventually / inevitably) explain things to him.

And Sherlock had counted on John for something, too.

John’s mouth fell open, and instead of twitching, he gasped, very softly. Sherlock looked away. “Sherlock,” John began, but then he stopped. He looked at Sherlock again, the harsh lines of him, the loneliness in those lines, and the distance between them. “I am sorry. I don’t – I didn’t want to ruin anything.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry that I did. That I seem to have…”

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock said. He glanced back and away again. “It’s all fine.”

(It wasn’t).

*

Boxing Day, and John came down the stairs to find Sherlock in exactly the same spot as he had left him the night before, and he could have believed the man had stayed there all night, were it not for the fact he was wearing his pajama bottoms and blue dressing gown, ratty old t-shirt peeking out from beneath.

He was holding a box, Christmas paper torn off and left to lie in his lap. The box was open, but John couldn’t see its contents.

“Who’s that from then?” John asked, making a beeline for the kettle. He poured enough water for two mugs.

Silence stretched out, and John was beginning to fear Sherlock had returned to the silence of the last few days, but then he said, “Mycroft.”

The seething anger in those two syllables made John pause in his sacred steeping ritual. He looked up. Blank mask in place, jaw clenched, slight quiver in the neck. John raised his eyebrows.

“What is it?”

“Can’t you deduce it?” Sherlock snapped. “Apparently everything about me is so transparent.” He snapped his mouth shut and moved to the window to glare at the morning-after-Christmas sunshine.

John brought the two mugs of tea with him, sensible enough to know that tea might very well be necessary in the near future, and should be to hand.

He put the two mugs down, then picked up the discarded box. Inside, nestled in expensive tissue paper with gold threads weaving through it, lay a freshly cut, beautifully arranged, sprig of mistletoe.

Gold ribbon wound around the stem.

A few days ago, John might have laughed, or made some sort of indignant remark or noise, or scoffed, or teased –

26 days ago, he might have felt panic or anger, or something infinitely more terrifying, which would have necessitated anger to quell it –

Instead he put the box down, and asked, trying not to squash the terrifying emotion rising in his throat, “What’s this about, then?” And then, “Is mistletoe some sort of ugly code between you two, or is it something simpler?”

Sherlock scowled out at the world and muttered.

“Something simpler, then,” John affirmed. “Can you tell me why you’ve been destroying every bit of mistletoe in your vicinity this past month? Please?”

Sherlock sighed; it was a sigh John had very rarely heard. It was a sigh that meant he had won, and Sherlock was about to, against his better judgement, explain himself. (Normally he just explained other people, you see).

“I didn’t want… I didn’t want this –” he indicated the mistletoe, possibly all mistletoe in general “ – to be,” he cleared his throat, “the reason.”

John’s heart sped up painfully. A month ago, he might have thought he was having a panic attack. The sweat in his palms and on his neck, his crazy pulse, and the sudden dryness in his mouth would all have fit that diagnosis perfectly.

Sherlock was watching him now, like a hawk, eyes narrow, and then they widened. “John, are you alright?”

John shook his head slightly, trying to clear it, trying to breath evenly.

“Are you having a panic attack?” Sherlock asked, hands jerking forward, but stopping short of touching John, and John could have laughed, because for a moment he felt the way Sherlock must feel; he saw and remembered all the touches Sherlock had and had not allowed himself over the last several months, nevermind this past crazy December. And it all…

Clicked.

John reached forward, breathing evenly now, heart racing, and grasped Sherlock’s forearms, and pulled him close.

Sherlock’s eyes widened even more, and he looked hopeful and vulnerable and everything he always loathed-out-loud, and John knew about that (yes he did).

Before Sherlock could speak again, John said, “Oh, shut up,” and kissed the surprise right out of him.

It was clumsy, (as kisses are wont to be when one party is not expecting it), and a little sloppy (when that party’s inexperience is evident), but it was warm and bright in the folds of that moment.

It didn’t last long, and then John was pulling away to see Sherlock’s face, and oh God maybe he had ruined everything –

Sherlock looked shellshocked, lips parted and flushed, eyes wide open and dark, eyebrows raised. His eyes focused on John slowly, as if he was far away in that mind of his, cataloguing, and maybe he was –

Suddenly John was caught up in a tight embrace, Sherlock burying his face in John’s neck, simply winding his long arms around John’s lower back and shoulders and tightening. “Did you mean it?” Sherlock mouthed into his neck.

John relaxed the surprise from his body, then wove his arms around Sherlock’s tense body and squeezed a reply. Then, just to be clear, he said, “Yes.”

“It wasn’t the…the mistletoe? It wasn’t some convenience of tradition,” and the way he said it made John shudder, because there was a childhood in a nutshell indeed.

“No. See?” He looked up, and Sherlock untangled himself and followed his gaze. Above them, no green leaves, no white berries. Nothing to blame it on. John grinned, and Sherlock simply stared at him, then nodded.

“I would like to kiss you again,” he said then. “Now that I know what to expect.”

John’s grin turned wicked. “No you don’t.”

(Sherlock didn’t.)

(Neither of them really did).

fin


End file.
